Cellular Formation
by BiblioMatsuri
Summary: A series of DP oneshots. Genres subject to change and only apply to the newest chapter. Now posted: Understandings. Sibling moments in the Fenton family are just as weird as everything else in their lives. And what was that old cliche about overprotective older siblings? Warnings: Creepiness.
1. Current

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "Never-Ending Story" by Within Temptation.

* * *

Current

Observations:

I awoke. There was light and something else that I cannot describe in any human tongue. The green pushed me away, out of my birthplace into a place with metal and glass and fragments of green reduced nearly to nothing, and two soft warm things that spoke, and I remembered how to answer. They were bright, so bright it hurt, and I needed that brightness so much I reached anywhere I could to get it, and I reached inside myself and found it. So the warm soft things – people – were like me?

There were more, but some of these were different. They tasted like metal and lightning strikes, and there was a sort of half-twist in them that made them hard to reach. Thankfully, there were only two of these. Jack and Maddie Fenton – my parents. They're human – but I'm not? That was a little confusing, at first. Tucker didn't help, with that shifting half-twist that wouldn't settle and that stupid chemical taste like the stuff my parents used to preserve live specimens. At least I could reach those annoying little animals. Humans eat meat, and I'm at least sort of one. It wasn't weird.

There was another place I went, Casper High. It's a school, not the school, not that anyone could tell. Amity Park is all one school district. There were so many people, so much energy that they didn't even notice losing. I never had to go hungry again. …Of course, I figured out pretty quickly that I needed human food, too. Apparently, high school cafeteria food is universally gross and barely edible.

* * *

Analysis:

That was when I remembered the first two – Sam and Tucker's – arguments. I still don't get it. Humans are made to eat plants and animals, so why not? I could tell it mattered to them, though, and they matter to me, because they don't run from me, not ever. Okay, sometimes, but I know they don't mean it. It's just how we're friends.

They have no idea how much that matters. I hope they never do. I need them, like I need air and water, like I need the sky and stars. I need Sam to make me get up and do things and live life to the fullest, and Tucker to make me slow down and just enjoy life's little pleasures. I need them to care, so I can remember to care.

Sam, Tucker, my parents, my sister – they're easy to remember. They're always there, and I want them there, even if I don't say so. Unfortunately, Dash and Mr. Lancer are always there too. Funny enough, I don't mind them as much as I remember. Dash can't really hurt me anymore. He's just so, so small, and I know that if I wanted to I could break him, so I don't need to. Mr. Lancer doesn't like me, but he doesn't pick on me for the heck of it. He cares about schoolwork, and that I don't do as well as I could, but I don't care about schoolwork, just the routine of it. We disagree. I might resent the obstacle he presents, but that's all. They exist in ways I can't ignore, so I remember them.

Ah, Paulina. Now there's a mess. On the one hand, I have human reproductive impulses. On the other, Sam has a point. She's not particularly horrible, and she doesn't go out of her way to be cruel (because of her arrogance), but she's just… Shallow. Small, the way Dash is. She just doesn't matter, except when my more human side decides to spazz out over the hot girl standing right there, and I'm mentally banging my head against a wall. Of all the girls to fixate on, her? She barely has enough substance to her to fill a teaspoon. She tears others down to make herself feel better. Any new-formed weakling knows how to do that.

Valerie. …Honestly, she's more my fault. I'm beginning to suspect I'm a masochist, or at least self-destructive. She hates me. Really, "kill-him-a-lot" hates me. That's the problem. When she was just another popular girl, she was just kind of there as far as I was concerned. She existed, but didn't matter either way. Then she started trying to destroy me, sharp-as-a-knife destruction, fire and venom and poison and all-consuming rage – it was beautiful. She really saw me. …Yep, I'm an idiot. I-di-ot.

And here we come to Sam. Honestly? I don't know what to think about her. There's power in her, too, but it's not the same. Sam is... She's a hedge of thorns, a scarlet rosebud with inch-long thorns, a many-colored flower that could destroy me with a touch. She just – she feels everything, so strongly and immediately her emotions seem more real than reality sometimes. She's hot and bright and surging energy and grasping thoughts and I want her so badly it hurts. …I'm not gentle. I'm a freaking ghost. I barely understand the concept, on a good day. As strong as she seems from a distance, up close she's only human. I'd hurt her, I know I'd hurt her, so I can't have her. End of story.

That's where Jazz comes in. Sweet, naïve, child prodigy Jazz. Everyone likes her, and that's just how she likes it, because the more people she has around her, the more she can pick their brains apart and see how they tick. Jazz wouldn't pull the wings off a fly to see it suffer, but she would do it to see if its behaviors changed, however slight the chance. She pokes and prods at my sore spots, shows me where Fenton and Phantom don't fit and where they do, asks me questions that make me think instead of just letting everyone else define me. …She goes and makes me hot cocoa in the middle of the night when both of me are panicking and pacing through the walls because I can't tell who "Danny" is anymore, and I'm terrified. She's the only one I can show fear to, because she already knows my fears, whether I show them or not.

And this? This scares me more than anything. I'm philosophizing, going on and on about the "self", when all I'm supposed to care about is who needs to hurt and who needs help and who I can safely ignore. I'm becoming more and more like Fenton. And Fenton is becoming more like me. Don't get me wrong, sneaking into the girls' locker room was all him. Overshadowing Tucker for the heck of it, tricking Vlad by taunting him with what he wants most, sneaking into Dash's home to see what we could hurt him with – yes, those are all things I would do, but I wasn't in charge at the time. I wasn't even a spectator the second time, thanks to that freaking Plasmius Maximus. If I ever get the chance, I'm blowing the thing to pieces and wiping the blueprints. Both me's. It hurts being alone, when I'm never supposed to.

That much, I know. Fenton's body was fried in that explosion. Without my power regenerating the damage and holding on to our memories, he'd be a vegetable by now. I'm basically parasitizing Fenton, hitchhiking in his body and mind, tacked on to his soul so tightly I can't even tell whose it is anymore. Without him, I would only be Phantom – a nameless ghost. With him, I fear as strongly as I care, and this much will never change: If my loved ones are hurt, I will do anything I can to make up for it. If that hurt has a cause and that cause has a name, they will suffer in equal measure. If I owe a debt, I pay it back. If someone wrongs me, I wrong them back.

Oh, he never said it, but he felt it. Every time the bimbo brushed him off, every time the jocks threw him around like a sack of potatoes, every time his teachers ruled in favor of the kids whose parents were on the board and not the town freaks, it hurt. They never mattered to me, though, so it hurt less and less each time. Every time his parents humiliated him, every time his sister dismissed him, every time his best friends forced him to choose, it hurt. But they matter, and if they were perfect, they wouldn't be the people we love anymore, so I can let go. Not always, but most times. For the other times? Two words: Care Bears.

It's funny, it really is. Somewhere along the line, when our parents decided they wanted to vivisect me and the townspeople started running away screaming, Sam and Tucker and Jazz all assumed something about us, and neither of us bothered to correct them. See, they all think our obsession – our, not mine, not anymore – is protection. Ha! It's not. Yes, I'm protective of my loved ones, and I don't want random bystanders to get hurt just because they had the bad luck to get caught up in my battles. It's what I do, but it's not what I am. What am I, then?

* * *

Conclusions:

Retribution. Not revenge; I don't need to rub it in people's faces when I get even, as long as I'm satisfied we're even. It can be fun, but it's not necessary. I just – it's _wrong_, when someone does something and nothing happens to even things out. It doesn't hurt, exactly, and it doesn't scare me. It just feels wrong, like the thought of the sun going out in eight minutes with no warning, or when Dad accidentally warped the house somewhere else with us in it and nothing seemed to be quite right, and all the angles went too far and all the curves were too straight and all the rooms were too small. That's how it is.

I'm weird, for a ghost. Fenton is very weird, for a human. …We're the same person. At least, most of the way, most of the time, except on moonless nights when there's no light, no living things to distract me. At least, nothing I can't sense without trying. Times like this, I can stop being alert all the time and Fenton can stop being paranoid and we can just think and feel, and more and more we think and feel the same things. Now we're drifting apart again, which almost always means-

"BEWARE!"

Oh. You've got to be kidding me. How does that dope even keep getting back out of the Ghost Zone? Well, whatever, time to do what we do best. I tense, Fenton laughs, and we smirk as that sense of _rightness_ settles into place for the thousandth time.

"Hello, misplaced aggression."

* * *

A/N: AR, not AU. If it's left open to interpretation whether or not Phantom is an alternate personality, just a set of impulses or even a replacement for the old Danny Fenton, that's because A) That was the point, and B) I don't know myself. ^^ *heh*

In some ways, this is a counterpoint to Antifreeze. Sort of.


	2. The View from Hell

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "It's Not the End of the World" by Lostprophets.

Warnings for character death and religious themes.

* * *

The View from Hell

In the town square, there was a witch.

She could hear cheering, the calls of celebration.

The townsmen had dragged her away, their grip too strong to break. She shouldn't have lost, shouldn't have been caught, but when they'd believed Vlad, she'd frozen in shock.

_And why wouldn't they? Everyone loves Vlad, until they realize what he really is._

(Even she'd looked up to him in a way, with a distant sort of respect for his rags-to-riches past, for that ruthless streak she'd often wished she had. And then she'd seen Danny, broken and beaten, for the sake of his plots. She'd helped her closest friend stagger home, him trying not to look like he was leaning on her, her too worried to be angry for Danny's sake and too angry to be scared for her own sake. She'd peeled the cloth away, biting through her lip at the whines and whimpers that slipped out when she'd reopened still-seeping wounds. Then she'd finally realized that for all of Danny's smart-aleck comments and lame puns, Vlad was no joke. He was a threat.)

_I really wish hadn't forgotten that Vlad always finds a weak spot. And Danny's greatest weakness is that he cares about us._

She was not proud, now. She was raging, ranting, begging for them to stop and let her the hell go already!

(No one cared. No one gave a good goddamn. In their eyes, she was a threat, and they were scared animals doing what any animal would do to a threat. She just wished, in some atavistic, incredibly selfish and basic part of herself that it was someone else getting dragged onto a platform, tied to a post, trying to kick and hit and get out of these damned ropes right now. That they would stop piling wood at her feet, one man winding a filthy rag around a particularly stout stick while another fiddled with something. A sharp stone in one hand, a knife in the other.)

_Flint and steel_, her mind supplied. _A primitive fire-striker_.

_Oh, G-d. They're smiling. They're happy and they're smiling and they want me to die and why would they want that? They're human, I'm human; we're all people._

_They think I'm a witch, that I'm touched by the devil. I don't even believe in the devil – I'm Jewish! Not that that would help any. They'd probably just cheer louder._

She scanned the crowd, desperately searching for an opportunity, for some way out. There, she saw a flash of dark skin, out of place in a settlement of northern European Christians.

_Tucker's here, which means – DANNY!_

_He's here…_

And he stopped, seized by a half-there blood red mist emanating from half-closed buds.

_Oh, no. No, no, no. The blood blossoms actually worked? Damn it, why? John Fenton Nightingale is the Jack Fenton of colonial times, his crazy ideas shouldn't work. ...But Mr. Fenton's crazy ideas do work._

A nameless townsman cursed, blowing on the smoldering cloth so the sparks would catch.

_No, damn it! Make it stop._

She was crying now, uncaring of who saw her, as he writhed and screamed, too far gone for words.

_Danny, a witch's familiar? He'd cut off his own hand before he let himself be bound like that again. I'm not even a witch… I wish I'd tried harder to learn that spell, even just one spell to move the ropes away enough to slip out of them; just enough so I could save myself and Danny wouldn't have to suffer like this._

The torch touched wood, licking and biting.

_Who is that, screaming? It's so annoying. …Oh. That's me. Why aren't I stopping?_

The kindling caught fire.

_Dammit, move, limbs! Get away!_

The flames moved, eagerly consuming the thin, dry branches.

_GET IT AWAY FROM ME!_

A spark drifted, caught coarse fiber and blazed. The flames began to spread.

_No! No, no, this can't happen, not like this! I was supposed to die old and gray and surrounded by glowy-eyed grandkids, or exploring an exotic wilderness, or making a bold last stand against an unbeatable enemy, or- or any way but this! This is pathetic! It's just fire; I've been in more danger visiting the Fentons when they're working with something explosive, this can't happen._

Eyes widened across a town square, a lost boy unable to reach his only friends.

_Someone, anyone, Danny – help me! Get me out of here. Please._

A finely dressed man standing within arms reach frowned, disappointed. Were his enemies this weak?

_Ah, G-d, it's got my leg – AUGH!_

The boy screamed, poison eating into his body and mind as he felt his treasure suffering alongside him.

_I'm going to die. Here, now, I'm going to die. Damn you, Vlad Masters. Damn you to a thousand screaming deaths._

The man shrugged, stepped back. Perhaps if the boy didn't so stubbornly hold to his former existence, he would finally make a decent heir. Failing that, even a broken tool might have value if remade.

_No. No, infinity times no. If I die hating, he wins._

Yes, this would do quite nicely. After all, it wasn't as though the boy could actually carry a grudge. The worst he'd done to even his enemies amounted to little more than childish pranks.

_If I'm going to die here…_

Struggling to break through the ring of crimson buds, a figure faltered, dropped. Power born of will and sustained by hope receded, leaving only the shell of a boy almost old enough to be counted a man.

…_let me die with dignity._

The girl spoke, rasping near-silent words of faith through smoke-seared lips and utter pain.

"Hear, O Israel…"

* * *

In the town square, there was a pile of ash and bone. Skin and muscle seared away, bones fallen into a disordered heap, a heat-cracked skull perched atop the pile like a grotesque trophy.

_They'd been beautiful last words. Pity she'd started screaming again._

The crowd began to disperse, some gone to fetch a broom and others to find the town priest. Others dragged the Negro away. John Fenton Nightingale had cheerfully offered to deal with the boy lying in place of her hell-spawned servant, likely all that remained of an innocent victim of theirs.

_Idiots and fools, all of them.  
_

Among the stragglers was the smooth-voiced witch-finder who'd only just come into town. He waved the large man away distastefully, glaring at the unconscious form at his feet. He knew well that a ghost without the will to go on would self-destruct. There was no need to let a perfectly good pawn get broken in the process.

_This is how it ends.__  
_

His face blank, he bent down to move what was left of Daniel out of the main square-

_______Was that really it?_

-and stopped as a hand gripped his wrist with the strength of madness. Broken ice-blue eyes met his, the boy's lips moving soundlessly.

___Years of struggling, and the boy broke so easily?_

The silence broke with a wet, hacking laugh.

_Pathetic._

The boy released the man's wrist, his smaller hand sliding into the man's own. Taking this as an unspoken plea for help, the man pulled him to his feet.

The boy dropped his hand like it was something foul he'd found under his shoe, looking up at him with eyes that screamed betrayal to the universe, and the universe didn't care.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Did you think it was a game?"

Now the boy would shoot back one of his wise-aleck remarks, probably about how he wasn't the one who kept bringing up chess.

"Yes," the youth cackled. "I actually thought you wouldn't sink that low."

The man smiled, shaking his head tolerantly as he witnessed the death of innocence. "Oh, little badger. Did you think your little Goth girlfriend was my first kill?"

He turned away, satisfied that he had won.

The girl was dead, the errand boy was either dead or in serious pain and in no shape to pull a last-minute rescue, and any other potential support the boy had was centuries not yet born. No, there would be no rescue for him, no option save to give in like a good little boy.

Suddenly, he heard the tinkle of broken glass and little-boy laughter, felt the thick tackiness of drying blood, and saw a distant image of ice sublimating into poison mist. He could smell and taste decay heavy on his tongue, and knew in a way that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the oldest mammal instincts that there was something sick, and mad, and right behind him-

_NO._

-straining to move, he turned his head, and his eyes met blood-filled orbs, irises bleeding scarlet into sclerae, pupils lightless pits looking into the void at the end of existence. Corpse-pale lips cracked, stretched into a rictus grin. Tar-black hair faded ash-gray, skin stretched taut across bone as his body and soul consumed themselves. A face almost as familiar as his own twisted past breaking point and repaired by an inexpert hand.

_(Somewhere beyond human understanding, a shapeless self begged for a second chance. Please, let one who had been precious and innocent begin anew.)_

Distantly, he realized that his lips had moved to form the words of a half-remembered prayer, a plea for mercy far older than he.

_(Worlds away, a spirit of human order imposed on chaos heard that selfless plea. He stared dully at the scene, then closed his eyes and turned away. This was not within his power to change, not this time.)_

Too late, the man remembered why there were lines that even the cruelest ghost would not cross, why one never entirely destroyed or stole what was most precious to another spirit. For when the spirit broke, the mind would follow, the soul would fall collapsing in on itself-

_(In yet another world, the girl found speech moments before the flames caught. The ring was broken, the boy freed, and their foe vanquished only to return another day.)_

-and something else was created.

* * *

Author's Note: First, I have no idea where in the world this came from. My mind scares me sometimes.

The prayer was in fact the Jewish declaration of faith, or rather the first few words of the English translation of it. I just couldn't bring myself to use the full version, or the transliteration, in this setting.

If I've offended anyone by using religious themes in a horror story, you can say so. Just please say it in a civil manner.


	3. What We Do

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "I Want to Know Your Plans" by Say Anything.

* * *

What We Do

It was an ordinary night in Amity Park. Specifically, a Movie Night: A few hours set aside for laughing at bad special effects and worse acting, and pretending not to be scared when the latest slasher villain did something particularly horrifying. Just three teenagers, a TV, and lots of junk food in an absolutely enormous TV room/bowling alley/arcade/who-knew-what, otherwise known as Sam Manson's basement.

And as usual, Tucker Foley was being a pig.

"What?" the walking stomach asked around a mouthful of half-chewed pizza.

"You stole the last slice," Danny Fenton griped at his gluttonous friend.

Tucker swallowed. "I am aware of that, yes," he said primly.

Sam rolled her eyes, looking distastefully at the pile of empty take-out containers, potato chip bags and burger wrappers on the coffee table. "You know, there's another box right under that one."

The boys traded a look. As one, they went for the table and the hidden box of cheesy goodness.

Sam took the opportunity to claim the adjoining seat for her mega-size tub of spicy hummus and bag of organic pita chips.

Danny was the first to realize that that had in fact been the last of the pizza, and whirled around to see what he'd missed while preoccupied with the promise of junk food. He saw Sam, a tub of something vegan, and fewer available couch cushions. Proximity to Sam beat hypothetical food, and he ran for the couch.

When Tucker finally gave up, he found himself lacking both pizza and his old seat.

"Aw, man!" He pouted. "You're both jerks."

Danny pointed at a fluffy armchair that matched the couch. "There's a chair right next to the table."

"Yeah, but the couch has a better view of the TV," Tucker said matter-of-factly.

"Don't care," Sam said.

Tucker opened his mouth to protest, and Sam shot him a Look: "Don't make me come over there, or else."

Tucker trudged over to the chair and flopped down with a bag of microwave popcorn.

Looking between his friends, Danny cut in, "Um, could we just watch the movie?"

They both glared at him.

Danny opened his mouth, most likely to say something, but was cut off by a breath of ice-cold air that turned white with condensation as soon as it hit the room-temperature surroundings. He groaned. "You have to be kidding me. I just fought Ember last week."

Tucker griped, "Is it just me, or is there less and less time between attacks these days?"

"How would I know?" Sam snapped. Her newly returned irritation had nothing to do with her coming to that same conclusion weeks before, or that she had no clue what that meant. Of course not.

Danny just stood up and walked to the edge of the TV area, getting a better vantage point – and away from breakable objects like the TV. As long as it wasn't Technus, that would give him a chance to move the battle. He gulped. The technopathic ghost might have been a joke in the beginning, but each successful upgrade got smarter and stronger, until some of his recent efforts had genuinely threatened the world. _Please don't be Technus_, he thought as he focused on the sense of _intruder_ that was an unfriendly, if not outright malicious ghost, somewhere in his friend's home.

_Okay, it's not him_, he thought in relief. _Ember should still be licking her wounds after the last fight. Walker can't have come up with a new scheme so soon since the last one. I haven't seen Johnny and Kitty in a while, but I don't think he'd come here alone. Maybe Desiree? No, it doesn't have that smoke-through-my-fingers feel. Spectra? …Yeah, that's nowhere near malevolent enough to be her. Ha! Eat that, Lancer, I do too have a vocabulary_-

Another burst of cold interrupted his musings, alerting him to the manifestation of an ectoplasmic entity in his immediate surroundings. In plain English, the ghost was here. Gathering energy to transform, he shifted into a combat stance with the ease of long practice and frequent use. Sam and Tucker moved in on either side, a little ways away in case the intruder came in ecto-rays blazing. Danny tensed, ready for anything as the energy blurred into a familiar form.

"BEWARE!"

Slumping, he stared. "Box Ghost? Seriously? That's what I was worked up about?" Muttering in tired complaint, Danny reached for his Thermos. He didn't want to deal with Amity Park's resident undead annoyance any longer than he had to.

"Wait!" Tuning out the usual melodramatics, Danny checked the Thermos to make sure it was in capture mode.

"Look, Box Ghost, I'm really not in the mood for this, so just hold still and you'll be back in the Ghost Zone before you know it." Not really, but then he wasn't so sure the Box Ghost was ever really aware of his surroundings, so it worked out fine.

The Box Ghost swooped in, stopping just out of arm's reach. "Ghost child, do you know of any rectangular containers that contain or have contained food?" he rasped loudly.

"So, your new evil plan to throw leftovers at people until they somehow get scared – and you're asking Danny for help?" Tucker quipped.

"Yes! I mean no!" The Box Ghost glared accusingly at Tucker. "Do not attempt to confuse me, human. I have come here for an important task, and I will not be swayed! Fear me, or face my cardboard fury!"

The trio all rolled their eyes at that one. Without an evil box to power him up, the Box Ghost barely rated a nuisance. _Weird, though. Box Ghost is literally barely a blip on my radar, so what was I sensing?_

…_And there's another one._ Sighing, Danny turned around and saw a floating, green cafeteria worker. "Hello, Lunch Lady," he said flatly. "What now?"

She sniffed. "If you must know, we're shopping for decorations for the upcoming celebration. Food containers were the first ones we both liked," she said mildly.

Danny let out a relieved breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Lunch Lady was creepy enough in a good mood. He did not need the wholesale property damage that came with her bad moods, especially not in the Manson's basement. Sam might let him off with clean-up duty, but her parents would probably find some way to twist it into a lifetime ban from the premises. No visiting Sam at home, ever? He shuddered at the thought.

"What celebration?" Sam asked.

_No, don't draw their attention!_

"Our engagement party!" Box Ghost announced happily.

Danny took a moment to process that, and then decided he was much better off not following the thought to its logical conclusion. Ever.

"Aw, how romantic!" Sam said brightly.

"Isn't it just?" Lunch Lady agreed. "Now, about those containers…"

"Oh, you don't mind if they're a little used, do you? 'Cause there's a whole table covered in fast food containers right over there," Sam pointed out, indicating the TV area.

"Oh, yay!" The Box Ghost brightened up.

"Now, dear, those look a bit… soggy."

"Try the mall food court?" Tucker suggested.

"Oh, what a good idea! Thank you, dear. Cookie?" she offered.

"Uh." Tucker hesitated, but faced with concerted glares from his friends, he chose the route that would probably avoid angering the crazy bipolar lunch lady ghost. "Sure, thanks!"

Tucker took the cookie, and the ghostly couple levitated the assorted containers off the table. They waved a cheerful goodbye and left through the ceiling.

The three friends just looked at each other for a few seconds.

"That was random," Sam muttered, still somewhat confused.

"Yeah, that was disturbing in ways I don't really want to think about," Tucker said distractedly, appraising the cookie. It didn't look that bad, and it smelled okay.

"Put that down, you don't know where it's been!" Sam scolded.

Tucker gave her a look. "Okay, what? First you're all nice and polite to the Lunch Lady, who you can't stand, then you snap at me! …No, wait. That part's normal."

Danny silently repeated the question, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Ugh, fine… I didn't want those two messing up the basement. My parents might be oblivious, but even they would notice holes in the walls and-" a shudder "-rotten meat everywhere."

"And that's why Danny didn't just stick them both in the Thermos?"

Danny shook his head. "I probably would have gotten the Box Ghost, but then Lunch Lady would have tried to take revenge and… yeah."

Tucker shrugged. "Fair enough. Now, enough distractions, it's time for popcorn and bad acting!"

Danny smiled at Tucker's enthusiasm as they sat down.

"Yay, I get a decent seat – No! Why is Sam's icky vegetable slop still here?" Tucker cried at the sight of Sam's hummus still on the couch.

"Slop?" Sam said warningly, raising a fist.

"Guys! Calm down, maybe they just took the stuff on the table?"

Tucker rushed to the chair. "No, they didn't. My popcorn's gone," he muttered morosely.

"Well, then I don't know why. How about I just get some fresh popcorn?" Danny said, trying to placate both of his friends. Before either of them had a chance to reply, he retreated to the kitchen.

Somewhere behind him, the sounds of the inevitable argument erupted. By the time he'd returned with the first tub of popcorn, Tucker had been exiled to the chair as Sam stretched out on the couch. Danny put the popcorn down on the table, Sam moved her feet out of the way as Danny took his seat, and the opening credits began playing.

Just an ordinary night in Amity Park.

* * *

A/N: I attempted to write a Valentine's Day fic, then got horribly sidetracked and couldn't stop writing. And I have to be up in three hours. Yay me.


	4. A Story about Stuff

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "Kill the Lights" by The Birthday Massacre.

Warnings: drinking, drug use, sexual references, implied smoking, death. Oh, and swearing.

* * *

A Story about Stuff

A greasy-haired, pimple-faced boy kneeling next to what looks like a vaguely bike-shaped pile of rusty parts swears when his fingers catch. A girl with a chemical-red perm and too-old eyes slumps against a wall, leather jacket scraping against the dingy concrete wall. "Hey, Johnny."

He yanks it out, checks for bleeding, and forgets it. "Yeah, Kitten?"

"Let's run away together."

"…What?"

She smacks him on the head.

* * *

They are soaring. The sky is wide and blue, the road is long, the wind is in their faces, and the world is full of endless possibilities.

Just for now, she can forget that they're riding a bucket of bolts held together with spit, duct tape and a quick prayer for good luck. Like those ever worked before.

Shivering, she tugs her scarf a little tighter and leans forward into his smoke-and-machine-oil-smelling back. Just for now, let them ride the open road, living the dream.

* * *

Johnny picks himself up off the ground, glaring at nothing in particular. Kitty is less easily distracted, and glares at her big-mouthed numbwit of a boyfriend as she searches for her other shoe. "This is all your fault, you know."

"Me?" he yelps. "How is this my fault?"

She turns her glare up a few degrees, like she's trying to burn a hole in his thick skull. "You got us fired again, nimrod!"

"But…" he mutters.

"But what?" She's in no mood for excuses.

He shakes his head a few times, pushing stringy dirty-blond hair back out of his eyes as he scans the pavement for their stuff. He bursts out, "I didn't like how those creeps were looking at you, okay? And that fatass was feeling you up! What, was I supposed to just stand there and let him?"

Kathy "Kitty" Landers just stares up at him for a second, mad and sick and tired of all this crap. Why couldn't he be like all the others and understand how the world worked? "Johnny," she calls him.

He stands there dumbly. "Yeah, Kitten?"

"I don't want my feet to get all cut up. Go find my left shoe."

He smiles for a second, there-and-gone, the happy bright overgrown-kid smile that had first sucked her into one of his get-rich-quick schemes an eternity ago.

They work in silence, salvaging whatever was left of their things. The bad thing about a job that came with a room was that you didn't get time to clear out your stuff, and odds were you didn't have much stuff. At least they'd gotten to change out of their uniforms.

Kitty scrapes her knee on something and bites back a curse.

A tap on her shoulder, and a slightly fearful-looking Johnny is holding out her missing shoe, shoe and hand covered in some unnamable gunk.

Kitty opens her mouth to start scolding him, and he starts babbling frantically about a storm drain and leaf gunk and hey, at least it didn't go in the sewer, right?

"Just clean it up."

"Wha- wait, how-"

"There's a twenty-four-hour gas station." She points to the corner. "Go ask if you can use their bathroom. Even brown water from a shitty bathroom is better than actual shit."

"But…"

"Shoe, clean, now – or else, Johnny."

"Or else what?" he mutters petulantly, getting up to go anyway.

"Or else no touchie for a week, you ass."

His eyes widen, and he runs off for the gas station.

* * *

Kitty swears as she scrubs at a stain on her shirt. Her spare wore out weeks ago, and she does not want to go walking around with a giant freaking mustard stain on her shirt.

A knock. "Hey, sweetie? You done in there?"

"No!" she yells over her shoulder. Stupid cheap-ass rest stop bathroom with its tiny sink, stupid cheap-ass burgers that taste like grilled ass, stupid cheap-ass boyfriend who was always too broke to pay for anything better.

Kitty finally gives up, wrings out her shirt and puts it back on, grimacing at the feel of the cold damp cloth on her already-chilled skin. She shoves the door open, grabs her jacket from Johnny's hands and stomps off for the bike. Stupid hunk of junk.

Johnny throws up his hands when she isn't looking. "Women."

* * *

Johnny "Thirteen" Thayer sits on the cheap (like everything else) motel bed, its sheets stained with he-didn't-even-want-to-know-what. He looks down at his hands, fingerless gloves practically glued on by now, shuffling a small stack of bills. It's mostly fives, with a few tens and ones and even a twenty. He's counted it a hundred times tonight, and it always adds up the same way – not enough.

There was never enough.

Kitty would not be happy.

* * *

Kitty stares dully at the mess of blood and clots and she-didn't-even-want-to-know-what-else swirling in the toilet bowl. There's way too much, she knows, to be normal. For this much to come out at once, for it to hurt so much on its way out.

"Fuck."

She finishes cleaning herself up as well as she can, with cheap toilet paper and a wet towel that she rolls into a ball and throws into a corner. Johnny won't ask questions, she knows. He never does.

She yanks up her panties and skirt, tips the lid down and flushes, hard, and keeps flushing until she's sure that there won't be any left.

Johnny would never know.

* * *

The next day, by mutual agreement, they buy all the junk food and cheap beer they can get their hands on. Then they go bar-hopping, a little here, a little there, until they wake up the next morning with the taste of dead things in dry mouths, reeking of sweat and sex and filth and liquor.

When Johnny wakes up, he mentally swears the air blue as he fixes his clothes so he's decent and goes to find some drinkable water to take the taste out of his mouth.

When Kitty wakes up, she does much the same.

Two hours later, she belatedly notices something in her jacket pocket. It's a gold-colored plastic ring, just a cheap kiddy thing that probably came out of a box of Cracker Jacks. She can see the seam. She turns it over, seeing a giant bright pink sparkly fake gem. It's cute.

On a whim, she slips it onto her left ring finger. When Johnny finally notices it, he jumps a good half a foot in the air. She smiles, the smug victorious I-gotcha-now smile that got his attention in the first place.

* * *

They are drifting, wind stinging their faces. The sky is dark blue and black and orange, city lights killing the stars. The waning moon is distant and dim.

Johnny had to hock his bike for scrap a few streets back. They're down to spit and prayers now, and a last few dollars burning a hole in his coat pocket. He grips them more tightly, left hand gone slick with sweat as he checks none of it is missing. For such a small amount of money, it's ridiculously heavy.

His right hand grips her left. The ring, that stupid-ass ring, digs into his fingers. They won't look in each others' eyes. Just for tonight, let them ride high, let them live their dream of the good life.

* * *

That night, they see and taste and feel in Technicolor, red-green-red and yellow-blue-yellow, broken glass and the reek of chemicals.

* * *

The next day, a boy just on the edge of growing up climbs onto his brand-new tricked-out motorcycle. A smirking girl with chemical-green hair climbs on behind him, arms around his chest. He grins at her, the devil-may-care grin that he knew got all the girls, and guns the engine. Shadow shifting and screaming, they set off into the endless dawn-gray sky.

Let them make believe they are free. They'll learn soon enough.

* * *

A/N: So, yeah, depressing. If you read between the lines a little, it's even more depressing. Inspired by "This is a Love Story" by Elizabeth Hill, though I've been wanting to write a JohnnyxKitty piece for a while.

Please no flames. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Any reviews would be nice.


	5. On the Run

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

* * *

On the Run

"Why do I have to drive?" Tucker half-whined, half-screeched as he wrenched their beat-up junker of a secondhand converted RV around a corner.

"Because the targeting system is out, again, and your aim sucks," Danny shot back as he lined up a shot. Or tried to, at any rate. Then he gave up trying to account for the rattling around and sudden swerves. He pointed the barrel in the general direction of their pursuers, pulled the trigger and tried not to get knocked over by the recoil.

"Like you actually aim," Tucker shot back over his shoulder.

"Just drive!" Danny yelled.

* * *

Jazz paced from one side of the room to the other, trying not to think about the many, many ways the boys' latest mission could go wrong. Unfortunately, one of the downsides of high intelligence and a vivid imagination was that she couldn't help thinking about it.

Jazz shot another look at the tiny television screen, which remained stubbornly gray and fuzzy. Feeling her frown deepen, she walked to the kitchen. It was a fairly short walk, as their current living arrangement was two tiny shoeboxes of studio apartments that were conveniently in the same building and leased by the month. As nice as it was having a semi-permanent place to stay, as opposed to yet another cheap motel room with stained sheets and possibly cockroaches, it meant that they had too much invested to just up stakes when the cable went out. Twice. In under a week.

Jazz was almost ready to start missing the cheap motels. Stifling a sigh, she tapped her foot and waited for the phone to ring.

Three minutes and twenty-some seconds later, Sam came storming in mid-tirade, face set into a scowl and favoring one foot. "-cking idiot of a building manager, son of a flea-ridden wild donkey and a two-bit whore!"

Jazz snickered slightly, despite all efforts to remain dignified. Oh, if Sam's parents could see her now, swearing like a dockworker and wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. Then she remembered where the Mansons were now, which cut the snickers short quite efficiently.

"And the donkey was senile, I'd bet." Sam shook her jacket off one arm and her shoulders, then carefully tugged it over her sprained right wrist. Throwing the worn-thin faux leather on her bed, she forced a smile in Jazz's general direction.

Eyebrows drawing together, Jazz stopped fidgeting. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse," Sam groaned. "I tried everything: bribery, blackmail, threats. Heck, I even threatened to kick him where it hurt if he didn't help."

"And?" Jazz prompted, strongly suspecting she knew the answer.

"It didn't help," Sam sad flatly. "The Mansons' name is mud to most of the world, now, and without the family money…" She trailed off, not bothering to tell Jazz what they already knew.

Jazz clucked her tongue absently, and replied, "Well, it was worth a shot."

Sam snorted, flopping onto her bed and wincing at the creaking bedsprings. "Right. Because I'm so good at getting people to do things without the family money or random goons to back me up."

"No, because I suspect you still managed to get something out of him, even if it wasn't a rush order on the cable repairman," Jazz half-joked, half-heavily implied.

Silence, for a few seconds, except for the _whirr-thump-whirrrr_ of the radiator.

"…I did," Sam admitted.

"It's bad news."

"Worse," Sam said dully.

"Worse than bad news?" Jazz said quietly.

"Yes." Sam flipped over, muttering curses into the pillow for a few seconds, then sat back up. "The boys?"

"Haven't heard from them yet."

"Crap. What about 'them'?"

Jazz shook her head.

"_Crap_," Sam moaned. "This whole thing is such crap."

Jazz silently agreed.

* * *

Danny slumped against the peeling paint and cheap plastic of the elevator's inner wall, trying to make his heart pound a little slower and a little quieter so that maybe he could hear himself think.

"That was way too close, man."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried not to think about the one hunter that had caught up to them, gleaming red-glowing weapon a beacon in the fading light.

"…I _said_, that was way too close."

He'd been such an easy target, so easy to grab and twist and spill dark crimson over that stupidly white uniform.

"Dude. Snap out of it."

It wasn't his fault. Really, it wasn't. He tried to be careful, tried to be merciful. Heck, he even used paintball rounds and tranquilizer darts, no matter how obvious the handguns Sam had somehow gotten a hold of had become over the last few months.

"Danny, wake up. You cannot freeze up here, we have to _go_."

Allowing himself the luxury of one last deep breath, he forced his eyes open and grinned. "Hey, Tucker."

From the look on his oldest friend's face, his smile probably wasn't that convincing. He'd have to work on that later, but for now, he had to not fall apart until they could grab the girls and get out of there. "Yeah, I know, Tucker. I've gotten the lecture before."

Tucker relaxed, from fearful apprehension to easy camaraderie in two seconds flat, but always with that edge of weary bitterness. "Which is why I'm not wasting breath on it now. C'mon, it's our stop." Tucker pointed a thumb at the door, his other hand fussing with a stick drive.

Danny straightened and nodded. He wasn't okay, and he probably wouldn't ever be. But he wasn't alone, and that made it okay. It had to, because if he fell apart, the others would think they could stop running, and then the Goons in White would catch them.

And he knew very well that they didn't give a damn about collateral damage, and that as far as they were concerned, so-called "traitors to humanity" were even less human that an "abomination against nature" like he was. And he would be damned ten times over before he let that happen to his loved ones.

* * *

A/N: Nothing much to say here, really. Just that a plotbunny bit me and I whipped this up in a little over an hour, so quality may not be the best. Please read and review.


	6. Best Friends Are Why I Have No Food

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "I Know You Know" by The Friendly Indians.

* * *

Best Friends Are Why I Have No Food

Danny shoved the door open, blindly punching in the security code to turn off the automatic defense system before it could close behind him. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he stumbled to the kitchen, feeling the familiar lightheadedness that came with losing too much mass and getting too little sleep.

Speeding up the healing on a bruise or two from getting slammed into a locker was one thing. Regenerating a chunk of his arm after one of Skulker's sneak attacks was another thing entirely. He smirked, thinking of what he had done to Skulker as soon as he'd had a chance to transform. It had involved an I-beam, an overcharged and explosive ecto-ray, and a strategically placed crowbar that had sent Skulker's newest suit flying apart. Said nuisance was now safely trapped in the Fenton Thermos.

As for why he suddenly had the munchies? Well, as a human, he had this little problem called "conservation of mass", and even if ecto-energy let him bend the laws of physics until they were about ready to scream at him, he couldn't entirely disassociate from them. _Ha_, he thought blearily. _See, Mr. Lancer, I do too listen in class, and do my homework. And then Cujo eats it. …Why?_

Speaking from very unpleasant experience, he had two choices right now. He could either go to sleep without food and act like a literal zombie until he replaced the lost muscle mass (and hopefully tomorrow's breakfast wouldn't be one of the ones that tried to eat its way out), or he could raid the fridge and have nightmares and an upset stomach.

Well, he'd have nightmares anyway.

Danny yanked the fridge door open and went for the leftovers. What was a little ecto-energy going to do to him at this point, anyway? Opening the casserole tin, he went to grab a fork and sat down at the table – and got a big mouthful of empty air.

He blinked down at the thing. Then he went down his mental checklist of people who had access to the Fenton Fridge (and yes, that was the official name). _Okay, Dad was up in the Ops Center all day, so he would have used the fridge up there, and if he'd had anything after dinner it would have been fudge. Casserole is definitely not fudge. Mom's too strict about eating at mealtimes, no way it was her. Jazz was off looking at colleges, ten to one says she ate out. Sam wouldn't touch my mom's cooking with a ten-foot pole and a haz-mat suit._

_Tucker._

Danny dumped the casserole dish in the sink and checked the fridge for anything else that might work. He was not going to mess with the emergency ham, since his father would assume (sort of correctly) that a ghost took it, which would lead to heightened security and lots of Danny getting caught in said security. The other leftovers were all over three days old, which in his family's fridge meant "man-eating mutant" and "time to order take-out". His stomach growled.

Danny glanced at the clock, and then glared at it. 2:06 AM. No chance of any take-out places open this late. Sighing silently, he crept up the stairs to his room, grabbed a navy blue hoodie and a red baseball cap in case the clerk noticed him, and took the window out.

Standing in line at the 24-hour convenience store, Danny let his mind wander while he waited for the fat drunk in front of him to stop trying to argue with the pimply-faced twenty-something-year-old at the counter. _Now, should Tucker end up in a clown wig and make-up this time, or should I stick with the classics and go with the tutu?_

As he whiled away the time with thoughts of special-delivery tacos doctored with burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth-off hot sauce, Danny barely noticed the fat guy taking his beer and leaving. He did, however, notice the skinny thirty-something woman behind him pulling out a gun and asking for all the money in the cash register.

…_Crap. Unbelievable crap._

Staring fuzzily at the crazy woman with the gun, he was just awake and alert enough to realize two things. The first was that in his human form, he had just as much to worry about from bullets as the poor sap at the counter did. The second was that he was still really, really freaking _hungry_.

Smiling a bit, he sent a tiny ecto-ray at the poorly hidden security camera in the corner – specifically, at the wiring behind it. Camera no longer recording, he faded from visibility and padded over to the would-be robber. She was glaring at the poor sap stuffing what little cash was in the register into a reusable shopping bag, gun shaking in her fingers. Not wanting to find out firsthand if the gun was loaded, he was extra-careful as he reached up and lightly tapped her on the shoulder.

_Sour, thin and nearly tasteless. More desperate than crazy then, but still ick._ Grimacing, he removed his hand and let her fall, slack fingers dropping the gun. He grabbed for it, sighing with relief when he caught it. He might not be in any danger while he was intangible, but the cashier and the robber would have been.

Then he heard a faint whimper from the other side of the counter. He looked up just in time to see the clerk hit the floor with a thud. He blinked back into visibility again, jaw dropping at his unbelievably bad luck. _He fainted? Seriously, fainted?_

"Worthless lumps of-," he grated out, then bit back whatever else he'd been about to say. Sleep deprivation on top of hunger pangs did absolutely nothing for his mood.

Sighing again, Danny put the items he'd been about to buy back where he'd found them. He didn't know how to use the cash register, and even if he did, he couldn't risk leaving fingerprints at a crime scene. And speaking of crimes, what was he supposed to do with a probably-loaded gun that probably had a criminal's fingerprints on it?

_Then_ he snapped fully awake, terrified that he'd gotten his own prints on it. No, wait, he'd caught the barrel through his way-too-long sleeve, which was a really stupid way to hold a gun, but still better than the alternative.

Okay, okay. This was bad. Really bad. But still salvageable. Now who did he know that could get this to the police without dragging him into it? His long list of ridiculous alibis for Phantom-related problems contradicted itself to a ridiculous extent, and he really didn't want police knowing he so much as existed, even if it was just as a witness to a fairly straightforward attempted robbery.

…And he was mentally babbling now, which was way too close to panic. _Stop it right now_, he thought. Man, even my thoughts sound like Sam – that's it! Sam!

Danny grinned, sneaked his again invisible self away from any other possible security cameras, and transformed in a convenient alley. He dug out his cell phone as he rose above the rooftops, and scanning for possible threats (read: ghosts, Valerie, Goons in White), hit Sam's number on his speed dial.

Two minutes later, he was talking a very worried girl down from near-hysterics (not that she would ever admit to it, or that he would ever bring it up). Fifteen minutes later, he was greeted in the Mansons' absolutely enormous basement by a very angry Goth in a fluffy purple bathrobe over a frilly purple nightgown and vampire bat slippers.

Wordlessly, she held out a pair of pliers, took the offending hunk of metal, stuck it in what looked like a Ziploc bag, and proceeded to yell at him at the top of her lungs. Soundproofing and Tucker-treated security systems were great for not getting caught, less great for avoiding loud lectures in the middle of the night.

Not having the energy to argue, Danny just turned back and said, "Sam, please. I'm really tired and really hungry, and can I please just eat something and crash?"

Quick as a thought, she was back to worry mode, although he knew the anger was still lurking beneath the surface, just one poorly-worded comment away from another explosion.

As he dug through the basement fridge and Sam looked over the gun with an odd fascination, she realized something. "Danny?"

"Yeah?" he mumbled around a mouthful of something greenish and not too bad-tasting.

"Did you get fingerprints on this?"

He rolled his eyes and replied, "No. I caught it through my sleeve." He lifted his arm, indicating the fuzzy blue hoodie.

"You realize I'm going to have to find someone who can get rid of all the clothing fibers, right?"

Danny swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. He laughed sheepishly, rubbing his neck.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Oh, for- just give me your jacket!"

"Why?"

"So I know what kind of fabric needs to go bye-bye before the police get it," she enunciated, slowly and carefully.

Danny blanched. "I didn't think of that."

Sam sighed. "At least you didn't just leave it there after handling it. Speaking of which, why were you even holding the gun?"

"Well, I couldn't just let it fall on the floor. Loaded gun, sudden impact – bad idea."

"Why was it falling?" she asked. At the half-smug, half-ashamed look on Danny's face, she amended that. "I don't want to know."

Danny shook his head sharply.

"…Do I need to know?"

He studied his hands for a second, and then replied, "No, I don't think so. They're fine."

"They?" she said, stifling a hint of fear.

"The cashier fainted," Danny explained. "And he wasn't even hurt."

Sam felt the instinctive fear she had not been forcing back drain away, and nodded. "So, off with the jacket."

Danny unzipped the hoodie, shrugged it off and handed it over. "Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so," she muttered, going over a quick mental checklist of her own, then mentally slapping herself for being an idiot. She walked over to Danny and looked him over head to toe, ignoring the slight blush on his face. Honestly, he made himself way too easy to read.

Her eyes widened in horror as she noticed the distinctly sunken-in look of his left arm. "Danny, you're hurt!"

Glancing at the arm, he half-shrugged and replied, "No, I was hurt. Earlier. Now, I'm just really hungry. Regeneration is useful in theory, but in practice it can be a pain. Still useful, but- What was I even talking about?"

Very carefully not looking Sam in the eye, Danny went back to the fridge. "Oh, sweet! There's still some of yesterday's pizza in here!"

"If you eat pizza in here, you might have…" Sam trailed off as she realized what she'd nearly brought up.

"Nightmares," Danny finished for her. "I'm not even going to bother worrying about those now. Just, um. One thing?"

"Yeah?" she asked quietly.

"Can I sleep here?"

As she was still rather out of it, this sent Sam's mind straight into the gutter. Among other things, she was now intensely aware of her current lack of a bra. It must have shown on her face, because Danny immediately started babbling about how it wasn't like that, and he didn't mean anything, and he just wanted to borrow her couch…

Laughing helplessly, Sam nodded and said yes.

* * *

The next morning, Danny was woken rather rudely by a glass of water to the face. Sputtering, he glared at his so-called friend. Sam just smirked and told him to get his butt off her couch.

Turning slightly red as he remembered how he'd humiliated himself last night, he was pleasantly surprised by the heaping plate of waffles, orange juice and fruit bowl on the TV table.

"Vegan waffles, made from scratch with soymilk and egg substitute," she explained in her usual self-satisfied way.

"Oh. Okay," he said absently, happily digging in. Hey, he was a teenage boy, and free food is free food.

Danny paused mid-bite, feeling like he'd forgotten something. Then Sam choked on her coffee and grabbed his arm. "Danny!"

"What?" he said anxiously.

"Security cameras!" she hissed.

"I zapped it before I did anything else, and I'm pretty sure there was only one in the store."

"Oh." Sam let his arm go, looking guilty when he winced. Yet another downside of regeneration – stupidly hypersensitive nerves in the injured area for at least a few hours, up to a few days depending on the injury.

Sam just changed the subject, never one to apologize for anything that wasn't truly dire. "I just figured we might have to wake Tucker and see if he could do anything about the tapes. Or if he knew someone who could."

Well, at least one of the two was pretty much guaranteed – wait. Wait. "That's what I'd forgotten. I still owe Tucker for starting this whole mess!"

"What?"

"I mean, is it okay if I call him up anyway?"

At her raised eyebrow, he blabbered something about three heads being better than two.

Still looking unimpressed, Sam replied, "Be my guest."

Danny chose not to point out the horrible pun, at the risk of an angry pre-coffee Sam. Sam was many things, but a morning person she was not, and he really didn't want to risk inciting the wrath of a girl who hit harder than most grown men when provoked.

Twenty-six minutes later, Tucker was in the basement with a bib on over his school clothes.

"A bib? Really?" Sam joked.

"Hey, how often do I get to eat rich-person food?"

Danny opened his mouth.

"And movie night doesn't count," Tucker said as he flopped down on the remaining seat. "That's just huge amounts of regular old junk food."

Danny closed his mouth and remained diplomatically silent. That really should have been Tucker's first clue that something was up.

"Syrup?" Danny offered.

Tucker happily agreed and tucked in, scrupulously avoiding the fruit bowl like it was on fire. It took everything Danny had to keep a straight (and more importantly, convincingly innocent) face.

"Hey, Danny," he asked around a mouthful of syrup-soaked waffle. "Didn't you say something about a fight with Skulker last night?"

"Yeah."

"Where'd he go?"

At this, Sam stopped and looked at him.

Danny half-shrugged and admitted that Skulker was still in the Fenton Thermos.

"And where's the Thermos?"

Danny lifted a pillow, revealing a faintly glowing metal tube lying on the couch cushions.

At Tucker and Sam's expressions, he replied, "What? It's Skulker. Let him suffer."

"Are you nuts, man? What if he got out?" Tucker yelped.

"I kind of had bigger problems last night," Danny deadpanned. "Besides, the Fenton Thermos lasts longer depending on power level and number of ghosts, and if we're talking raw power, no suit, Skulker rates somewhere just above the Box Ghost."

His friends communicated their disbelief.

"What? It's true. Skulker's not dangerous because he's powerful, he's dangerous because he's smart, and he learns from his mistakes. Most of the time, anyway."

"But the Box Ghost barely rates as annoying," Tucker cut in.

"Yeah, to me because I'm Amity Park's resident half-ghost, and to you guys who both have Fenton Thermoses of your own. Good thing my parents make spares, huh?"

"But, the Box Ghost?" Tucker repeated.

"Not so much hopelessly weak as hopelessly dumb on a good day, barely sentient on a bad day." Danny shuddered slightly. "If I ever slip anywhere near that far, somehow, please just end me."

Sam turned slightly green and pushed her plate away.

Tucker just shrugged and kept eating.

When they'd finished the last of the food except for a rather lonely-looking and slightly wrinkled green apple, Sam rushed the boys out the door. "Okay, Danny, I called Jazz before I went back to bed last night."

Danny jumped a bit at that, realizing he'd completely forgotten to let Jazz know where he was.

"I told her you were here, sleeping in the basement. She agreed to tell your parents you were sleeping over at a friend's."

Not saying which friend, and so technically not lying. Okay, good. "And?"

"You should still check in with her." Sam glanced at her watch. "And you'd better hurry, there's only half an hour until class starts."

"Got it. I can drop off Skulker while I'm at it."

"Don't forget your backpack," Tucker chimed in.

"How dumb do I look?" Danny shot back.

"Dumb no, worn-out no duh. You look terrible! No wonder Sam let you sleep over."

At that, Danny gave Tucker a very even look. It was the sort of look a cat gave an unusually large rodent when trying to decide if it was worth potential injury to catch. Then his gaze shifted over to Sam. "Hey, Sam, I forgot to thank you for the food."

She blinked, the caffeine from earlier only just now kicking in. "You're welcome."

"Yeah, I never would have guessed those waffles were vegan if you hadn't told me."

Tucker froze. "…Vegan?"

"Made with soymilk and egg substitute." With that, Danny transformed, went invisible and flew off, cackling.

The last he heard of them until first period was Tucker freaking out over eating health food and Sam winding up for the early stages of their usual meat versus vegetarian argument. _Now we're even, and all's right with the world._

For now, anyways, but he wasn't going to think about that. His existence was depressing enough without worrying about problems that hadn't happened yet.

Shaking his head, Danny set off for home. Ghosts to banish, last-second homework to do… Man, no wonder he never got any sleep.

* * *

A/N: Inspired by one of those copy/paste lists in someone's profile. You know, the ones with friends doing nice things and best friends being enormous jerks, absolutely loyal or both?

Sleep-deprived!Danny was rather fun to write. …And Matsuri is half-asleep herself because she's been working on this since dinner. Please read and review, constructive criticism especially appreciated.


	7. Impromptu

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "La Vie en Rose" by Louis Armstrong.

* * *

Impromptu

The first time Damon Gray saw her, she punched him in the nose.

He wasn't half as upset as he would have been, had he not just opened the door of his cheap apartment to find a fairly attractive young woman in a rather clingy and low-cut dress in a particularly rich shade of red. He'd always liked that color, especially when a pretty girl was wearing it. Not, of course, that he ever would have admitted that without being at least two sheets to the wind. Damon was always Respectful of Women, and privately thought that anyone who wasn't needed to be checked for the presence of basic survival instincts.

However, he had been unable to prevent himself from staring, or from blushing like mad. To be fair, it wasn't every day that an electrical engineering student that had spent the last twenty-two hours running on coffee and test anxiety found a complete stranger in their apartment.

As said stranger was already in a snit for reasons of her own, the gobsmacked look on his face was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, and he wound up with a bloody nose. And as said stranger was not, despite appearances, a particularly violent and unreasonable sort of person, she immediately apologized.

"Oh, my G-d," she moaned half from frustration and half from remorse, "I am so sorry. I just- you would not believe the day I've had, and then you- and- oh, I don't even know who I'm supposed to be mad at right now!"

She let herself flutter around in a panic for all of three seconds, then pulled herself together and grabbed his chin. Ignoring Damon's half-hearted and not-entirely-intelligible protests, she inspected the bloody nose, frowning.

"Well, shit."

That was not the sort of thing Damon had ever wanted to hear from a girl, especially not an actual girl his age who wasn't paying him for math tutoring.

She finished her assessment and looked him straight in the eye, not bothering to let go or back away. "You're probably going to have a black eye from that. Again, sorry."

With that, she let go and picked her way over to the couch, currently occupied by a sad-looking little beanbag pillow and an embroidered tote bag that was probably a refugee from the sixties. "Now lean forward – I said forward, not backward – and pinch your nose shut. Let me make sure my wallet's still in here, and I'll get out of your hair. And your apartment. And- okay, you know what? Let's just forget I started talking."

Damon just stood there as she hurried past him and down the hallway. He also stood there when she rushed back, shoved a little pack of tissues into his hands, ordered him to use them before he stained anything but his shirt, and teetered back down the hall, looking less than comfortable in her clingy dress and high heels.

* * *

The second time Damon talked to her, she laughed at him.

He'd just woken up from an impromptu nap on what would normally have been a ridiculously uncomfortable hard plastic chair in the lobby of the local clinic. As it was, the combination of exhaustion, the tag end of an adrenaline high and a very strong case of relief had acted as an effective sleep aid, and he'd nodded off while waiting for the receptionist to come back with the receipt for his visit for some ridiculous red-tape-related reason or other.

Now, he was very much awake, thanks to the strange woman that had given him a bloody nose last week and was now sitting in the chair across from him.

After a few minutes of this, he broke the silence with a very quiet, very polite "Excuse me?"

She started, shook her head and smiled at him. "I'm sorry about that. It's just that I'm sure I know you from somewhere, and I don't know where from, and then I must have started staring. Sorry."

Damon smiled back a little wryly. "If nothing else, you're very quick to apologize to me."

Eyebrows drawing together, she squinted at him for a few seconds, and then nearly fell out of her chair. "Oh, no! Bloody nose boy – I mean, I am so sorry about that."

He gave her a flat look and she started babbling that really, she did mean it, it was just that she'd been having a really bad day and then her date was an ass and she was so sorry, and was he okay, because it had been a whole week and he was just now going to a doctor-

"I'm fine! I'm fine, really," he cut off just as her voice started to shift from concern to scolding. "I just had a little disagreement with my roommate, and he needed someone to take him to the clinic after that."

She just looked at him for a moment. "…You had a fight with someone, and then you took them to the hospital?"

"Of course," he said a little defensively. "His license is suspended, so someone had to drive him here, and since I drive him everywhere anyway-"

At this point, he was cut off by peals of laughter that echoed off the flat plaster walls and right into his still-pounding head.

"You do remember you were in my apartment when you punched me?" he snapped.

That cut the laughter off fairly quickly, and looking contrite, she started to apologize.

He cut her off. "Would you mind explaining why?"

"You mean, why was I in your apartment, or why did I, um, punch you?"

"Partly the former, mostly the latter," he replied.

Looking very uncomfortable in her plastic chair, she shifted around for a minute before she spoke. "Short version? This guy Chuck, I met him at a bar-"

Damon made a disgusted face.

She bristled. "I don't even want to know what you're thinking. I'm not an alcoholic. It was my sister's birthday, and she insisted on the bar, and he just happened to come up and buy me a drink, and…"

"And he seemed like a really nice guy, until you realized he was kind of a sleazeball?"

"…Yeah."

"My roommate, the one I just told you about?"

"Yeah?"

"His name is Charles. I really should have known," he griped. "Nine times out of ten, when I get in trouble, it's his fault."

"And the other one out of ten?"

"Bad luck."

"So it couldn't be your fault?" she asked, half-teasing.

"Let me put it this way – how was getting punched in the face my fault?"

"…That one was definitely 'Chuck trouble', though."

"That doesn't help, though."

"You can't be that upset because of a bloody nose," she protested.

"In my apartment?" he said incredulously.

She muttered something too quietly to hear.

"What?"

She took a deep breath and said, "He took me to a hotel room, and I _was_ actually going to sleep with him, right up until I noticed there was already some floozy in the bed. And I mean floozy, right down to the damn garter-belts."

Damon smacked himself in the face. "He didn't."

"He did."

"Please say you punched him."

She hissed in a breath. "Yeah, um, at that point I managed to keep a hold of myself, at least enough to get out of the room before I started cursing."

"Next time, don't bother."

"Yeah."

"And you were in the apartment, because…?" he waved a hand, gesturing for her to keep talking.

"I met him there earlier, and I'd left my third-best scarf and a record there, and no way was I going to leave them where he'd just give them to some floozy."

Now, it was starting to make sense. "And when I opened the door, you assumed I was him."

"…Yeah," she admitted sheepishly.

Damon just slumped in his seat and waited for Chuck to come out. He almost hoped that they would let Chuck out before the scary girl was gone. Some people deserved to be punched in the face once in a while.

* * *

The third time Damon ran into her, she yelled at him.

He had just turned a corner on his way to a nice, quiet, secluded table in a hidden corner of the library that he was quite fond of as a study spot, and just to get away from the increasingly hectic rush of college life.

"You lost my finals notes, you-! …Oh."

The "oh" in this case was accompanied by an embarrassed flush that turned her café-latte-colored skin a few shades darker.

"Sorry. Again," she said, muffled by the hands that had come flying up to cover her face.

Damon huffed at the mystery woman. Being Respectful of Women was all well and good, but if she humiliated him again, he was going to – well, he was going to do _something_ back. This was ridiculous! "So, what have I done to deserve the honor of your company?"

Letting her hands fall, she smiled up at him in apology. The first time they'd met, she'd been about eye-level to his chin in high-heels. Now, she barely came up to his shoulders, and – yes, she was still wearing heels. Practical pumps this time, but for such a scary girl, she sure was small. She breathed in, and he very carefully watched her face and not the rise and fall of her chest, because that way laid Disrespect and most likely another punch in the face.

"Look, um, I really am sorry," she said at some point slightly below and to the right of his face. Not quite eye contact, but it was just as well. "I heard footsteps, and I thought it was my project partner, the lard-assed – whatever, I shouldn't have yelled at you."

He silently crossed this particular nook off of his list of favorite study spots.

"No hard feelings?" She smiled at him with spectacularly white, if slightly crooked teeth.

He managed a nod and what might have passed for a smile if one was very drunk, turned on his heel and set off for the cafeteria. He really needed coffee, even if it was cheap, vaguely coffee-flavored sludge from the cafeteria.

* * *

The fourth time Damon thought of her, he was very annoyed indeed.

"Chuck," he hissed at his so-called friend. "If we get out of this without being killed, maimed and-slash-or arrested and placed in different cells, I am going to kill you. I really will."

"Aw, c'mon," the so-called friend slurred. "Why d'you have to be such a party pooper?"

"We are in a disreputable bar in a disreputable part of town. It's past midnight, you're sloshed and neither of us are armed," Damon said in his best reasonable voice.

"S'a dive. So?"

"So, I would like to not get mugged, stabbed, and-slash-or arrested for underage drinking."

Chuck dragged his eyes off the scantily clad woman he'd been ogling to correct Damon. "We're not gonna get pinched here."

Damon could feel his left lower eyelid twitching, and resolutely ignored it. "Chuck…"

"D-man!" Chuck grinned.

"Don't call me that," Damon shot back automatically. Then he stopped, sighed and threw up his hands. "All right, fine. I give up. You want to go and wake up in a crappy hotel tomorrow minus a kidney? Be my guest."

"You worry too much," Chuck said firmly at a spot somewhere to Damon's right.

Without a word, Damon slipped out of his seat and went to go distract himself until his so-called friend got drunk enough to not argue. He'd had enough of talking at a wall for tonight.

Grumbling under his breath, he edged his way through the remaining late-night patrons. The Headless Horse was indeed a dive, from the filthy floor, grimy windows and scummy drinking glasses to the cheap liquor that went down like drain cleaner. It was also very cheap, which made it A-OK in Chuck's book, which meant that Damon's conscience wouldn't let him let the idiot go alone, because with his luck and lack of common sense he'd pass out and never wake up if he didn't have a babysitter.

Damon's conscience wouldn't let him leave Chuck alone, but his patience only stretched so far before he seriously considered drinking the rotgut they "served" here just to numb the headache. Glaring dully at nothing in particular, he looked around for something he could do to kill the quarter-hour or so it would take for Chuck to get drunk enough to stop arguing, but not enough to pass out or, Heaven forbid, need hospitalization. He spotted something new, and the shock must have shown on his face, because another familiar face decided to butt in.

"Hey, pud." This came in an odd Southern patois that he'd only recently found out people actually spoke outside of TV shows, pouring out of plump lips that were attached to a very, ahem, well-endowed body. At least, to all appearances.

"Hey, Bee," Damon greeted with the bare minimum volume needed to be heard over the bar noise. "Stuffed your bra?"

"Oh," she scoffed. "You get vulgar when you've had too many, you know that?"

"I don't drink," he said patiently.

"Then what's crawled up your behind?"

"My so-called friend."

Bee raised an eyebrow. "Chuck do something stupid again?"

"Well, he's still breathing. Of course he's done something stupid," Damon deadpanned.

She smirked. "My mistake. You're not a vulgar drunk, you're a cranky old geezer."

"I resemble that remark. But I'm not old," he pointed out agreeably.

She waved a cigarette-laden hand, wafting smoke through the air, and took a drink with the other. "Sure you're not. And I'm her majesty the Queen of Ingaldon."

"England."

"That, whatever. So what's really got you down?"

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"My ass. 'Nothing'."

He just glared at a wall.

Her face lit up, smoothing out the crows' feet that no amount of make-up could hide. "You got girl trouble."

Damon tried to keep his expression cool, but he could feel his face heat up. "You're a nosy old bag."

"Sure as the sun's hot, I am," she agreed amiably. Then her eyes narrowed, and she snapped, "And don't you even call me old, boy."

"I won't!" he protested.

"And that's what you said the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that."

He shifted, looking around like a little kid in for a scolding.

"Oh, you are too damn cute for your own good, Damon." She shook her head. "Now go on, I think your friend's just about done making a fool of himself."

Damon snorted. "I wish."

He turned to leave, hesitated, and finally stopped. "Bee?"

"Yes?" she said, with the air of a queen dispensing wisdom to her subjects.

"Thanks."

* * *

The fifth time he saw her, she was a mess.

He had been on the way back from his last exam, that final dreaded obstacle between him and a few weeks of freedom, at least until the spring term started. Emphasis on "had been", as he was now leading the current bane of his existence to the emergency room by her uninjured arm, walking as fast as he could without leaving her behind.

"I can find my way to the hospital just fine," she snapped.

"Oh, and what if you got lost? What if you passed out from blood loss? Do you even know your way around this part of the city?" he sniped back without pausing.

"I grew up in this city!"

"In this neighborhood?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Then she opened it again to hiss in pain as a passerby barreled into her, jarring her injured arm.

"Shit," Damon hissed. "Are you all- Stupid question. Can you still walk?"

She glared daggers at him, brown eyes slivers of hard stone. "My arm is hurt. My legs are fine. Do you even know how I got this?"

"No, how?" he asked absently, mind once more focused on untangling the maze of alleys and back streets for the quickest route to the hospital.

"I fought off a mugger."

He stopped and turned, horrified. "A m- Oh, Lord, are you all right?"

She looked at him incredulously. "Well, other than the stitch in my side and the gaping wound on my wrist, yeah. I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't have to be sarcastic," he whispered.

"Why are you whispering now?"

"Because I don't want to yell and draw attention, and I can't think straight around you, never mind when you're injured."

They hurried on in silence, unbroken by anything but the dull roar of traffic, the clamor and mutter of the crowd and the sound of ragged breathing.

"You're nuts," she finally said.

"For what? Playing the Good Samaritan to someone I barely know?"

"For- well, yes."

"What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?"

"Most people would have," she said flatly.

"Well, then you must not know many nice people."

"I know plenty of nice people – hey, wait, where are you going?" she protested, pulling on his sleeve.

"To the hospital."

"The hospital is south of here. We should have turned left."

He stopped, taking the chance to catch his breath. He was not used to this much physical activity. "Well, normally I would have, but Fullerton is closed for street repair until next Monday," he explained.

"And you know that because?"

"Because Chuck managed to get himself horribly lost yesterday, and I had to listen to his whining for an hour because of it."

"Chuck?" she asked.

"My roommate."

"Oh," she said in recognition. "The jerk who thought I was a slut."

"That's one way to describe him," Damon agreed diplomatically.

She just looked at him like she'd discovered some new and fascinating organism, and wasn't sure if she wanted to take a picture or go for the bug spray. Then she swallowed hard, pain showing in her face if not her words, and went into hysterics.

* * *

When he stopped counting, there were fireworks.

She swung her stocking feet off the ledge, shoes in her right hand and the other resting on a cold bottle of grocery-store wine. Smiling, she looked at the sky, waiting for the clock to finish counting down to midnight.

The smile dropped when she heard a too-familiar voice shouting worriedly at her.

"You! What are you doing?" he yelped, scrambling across the roof.

She twisted to look at him, all wrapped up a fuzzy sweater and his wire-rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of his nose, always worrying about something. "I swear, you're secretly an old grandma under there."

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head, fighting off sleep. Too many nights of too much coffee and her radio blaring at eardrum-bursting volumes to keep awake were finally catching up to her, but she couldn't fall asleep yet. Especially not on the edge of the roof, like some jumper.

_…Oh._

"You thought I was trying to kill myself?" she accused.

He looked away. "Well…"

She rolled her eyes and turned back around. "Fat chance. I just wanted a good view of the fireworks. The square is insanely crowded like always, and the roof of my apartment building has a pretty good view."

"And you're sitting on the ledge."

"No reason I can't," she chirped.

"Can, fine, but should…" he trailed off. Sighing, he sat down heavily on the ledge, facing the opposite direction.

"The fireworks display is this way," she said, pointing with a finger from her drink hand, and then freezing as she felt bottle glass gone slippery with condensation slip out of her still-healing hand. She watched helplessly as it plummeted out of sight and earshot to its end. "Shit."

A deep chuckle came from her left, and she whipped her head around to glare up at him. "And what are you even doing here?"

He hunched in on himself a bit, and then sat back up. "Well, to be honest – don't laugh, please?"

She said nothing, just waited for him to break the silence.

"I came up here after I walked you home, and I lost-" he hesitated. "-something important."

"And you picked New Year's Eve to go and look for it, because?"

"My roommate is gone, and no one else was going to notice, so yes."

"I noticed," she pointed out reasonably. She didn't point out that he hadn't answered her question.

He nodded, and then muttered an affirmative when he remembered she wouldn't be able to see very well as it was pitch-black out.

Nodding, she jerked herself awake and went for a drink, pouting when she remembered it was now shards on a sidewalk somewhere below. "You owe me a drink."

"Are you even old enough to drink?"

"Excuse me, Mister Goody-Two-Shoes, but I'm twenty-one. And didn't you tell me your drunk of a roommate gets you in trouble all the time?"

"In trouble, not drunk. Someone has to be lucid when things go down the drain. They always do."

"Poor baby," she joked.

"You are bipolar," he muttered.

"And you're weird," she said calmly. Then to his shock, she scooted off the ledge and started jumping around the roof like a little girl in a toy store, pointing at the sky. "Look, look!"

He twisted to look over his shoulder and froze. Usually, the sky was a yellow-at-the-edges haze of light pollution and smog it always was in big cities, thin slices or broader rectangles of flat dark blue glimpsed from between skyscrapers. Tonight, though, one little corner of it was lit up gold and silver and red and blue and green and honest-to-goodness bright pink, little sunbursts of light coloring the rooftops, just at the far edge of what he could see.

He didn't remember getting off the ledge or coming to stand next to her, but he knew he must have moved his glasses back up at some point, because they didn't get in the way when the crazy mystery lady kissed him.

* * *

A/N: Wow, all that and without either of them ever finding out each others' names. Please read and review.

EDIT: D'oh. I just realized I kept switching settings in the second scene. My bad, fixed it.


	8. Cradle of Time

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "The Clockyard" by Abney Park

* * *

Cradle of Time

1. Young

My first clear memory is of shapeless smoke and the squealing of rusty gears. I was quite small, I think, or perhaps large for my age. I don't actually know how old I was then.

I was reaching for a scrap of beaten metal, but I slipped and fell down the inconsistent hill of unwanted things, collecting cuts and bruises all the way.

I didn't quit, of course. I just got up and picked a new route and started climbing again. It was a special scrap. It was the first time I had ever seen something with such shine, so bright and new and hardly rusted at all on one side, and it made such a nice tinging noise when I hit it. And there was a bit of paint left on the rusty side, still, just a tiny dot of bright blue, something I'd never seen before. I believe I like blue.

I managed to obtain the scrap, in the end. It was quite nice, almost entirely flat on the shiny side. I used it as a mirror; rather, I still do.

What then? Ah, I was an easily amused child. The remains of all the infinite realms come to rest in that scrap-yard, and as you might imagine, there is no end to the amusements an imaginative child could find among the piles of refuse. I played there, quite happily, for longer than even I can count.

I was a child then, remember. I felt that there would never be a shortage of time.

2. Young

The longer I was there, the more I learned from the sights and sounds and scents carried with every item in the scrap-yard. The more I learn, the more I want to know about the places they had come from, about the forces and people and hopes and fears and desires that shaped such things.

Oh, my curiosity has never faded, not one bit. It has been tempered by intervening experiences, and I've a number of those experiences left to come, but that desire is as much me as my own heart-beat.

At any rate, I was young, bright with the brashness and newness of the young, on my hill of rusted iron and splintered wood and tarnished silver. It wasn't difficult to be so. I am the sole ruler of my lonely domain; that is simply how it is, even then.

Power and wit come with time, which is simply the way of things. For some, power and wit come long before sense. I was one of those fools, old in power but so young in sense, that I thought my expertise in all things thrown away was enough that I had earned the right to create, myself.

That is a story for another time. I will say only that I will never suffer the folly of my youth again.

3. Grown

I changed now, not only from desire but out of duty, that my scrap-built kingdom could be held together a few moments, a few eternities more. It was not easy, not anymore.

I was always just a moment too slow, an instant too late to stop the towers of junk and dreams from falling and collapsing in on themselves. I alone could not hold the center, could not heal the faltering heart of my world. With every motion I made, with every thought I could spare, I slowed, I weakened, I tired. I do not tire.

Eventually, I stopped.

4. Old

Where there had been nothing but scrap and refuse, the last fruitless struggles of infinite worlds, there was something new. And most importantly, I do not know where it came from.

I know what had been before, my scrap-yard with its never-ending piles of refuse, all the unwanted things that none before me had ever found a use for. I know what it became, a tiny dot of heat and light, a furnace expanding to reaches even I was hard-pressed to name, a miracle. Yes, a miracle. I was born in the leftover scrap of innumerable worlds, an endless junk-heap. It was all I knew, until something new came, and I could not look away.

It changed, always changed, heating and cooling and expanding and slowing and gathering and changing, changing, becoming other than what it had been moments ago, and I realized what was missing from my empire of useless junk.

There was no one else. There were many, many other things, but there was no one other than myself. That, I think, was when I first realized what "myself" meant, that there could be others, that others were not me.

And to think that it only took forever.


	9. Understandings

Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

* * *

Understandings

Danny leaned against the wall and stared out the living room window, eyes glazing over as he tuned out yet another of his dad's endless ghost-related blathering lectures. Jazz stood ramrod straight inches away, carefully disinterested, ready to make her excuses and leave as soon as their father paused to breathe.

"Kids, Jack! Dinner's ready," Maddie called from the kitchen.

Predictably, Jack immediately ran off to the kitchen chanting "Oh, boy, oh, boy, food!"

Jazz relaxed minutely, rolled her eyes and followed. Danny just sighed and trailed after her, feet dragging on the much-stained carpet. They took their seats and discreetly palmed their knives, ready to re-kill whatever freakish monstrosity their mother's so-called cooking had created this time.

"I made spaghetti and meatballs," Maddie said cheerfully, setting down a massive bowl of noodles topped with brown lumps and bright red tomato sauce. This raised suspiciously few warning flags until Danny and Jazz realized that the spaghetti was still shaking and moving around after she'd put the bowl down. Jack spooned a massive portion onto his plate and dug in, oblivious to their apprehension, while Maddie doled out more reasonable portions to herself and the kids.

Jazz eyed it warily, poking at it with a fork to see if it did anything, or worse, ate the fork. Danny gulped audibly and asked her under his breath, "Hey, Jazz? You think it'll be eyes or teeth this time?"

Narrowing her eyes, she poked a meatball and the outer layer split in half, revealing what looked like a bloodshot red eye. "Eyes."

"Great," he muttered. Pushing the meatballs to the side, he twirled a few strands of spaghetti around the fork and pulled it up. As soon as it got close enough to his face, it leaped off of the fork and attempted to strangle him.

Jazz shrieked and jumped out of her seat, away from the evil undead wheat products. Maddie simply reached over and peeled it off, leaving nothing more than a few streaks of sauce standing out starkly against Danny's pale panicked face.

"It's pasta, sweetie. It isn't that strong," she said reasonably, wrapping the errant noodles in a napkin and tucking it under her plate for study. It was interesting how the kids' dinners were always so much more active than hers or Jack's, and she'd been meaning to look into that for a while now.

Still looking a bit green, Danny pushed his chair out and got up. "You know what, Mom? I just remembered, I was supposed to meet Sam and Tucker at the Nasty Burger tonight. It just totally slipped my mind. Silly me, huh?" he laughed weakly.

Not missing a beat, Jazz pitched in, "Yes, that's right. Oh, and I have a paper due next week. I wanted to verify some of my sources myself, and I'll need the public library's microfiche to do that. Is it all right if I go out before the library closes?"

Concerned, Maddie asked, "But then what will you eat?"

Danny and Jazz wasted no time assuring her that they would eat something, and that yes, they would be home before curfew; no, Danny couldn't break a prior engagement, and yes, the research really couldn't wait.

Maddie sighed, disappointed. "Well, if you're sure, kids."

"We're sure, Mom," they chorused, for once in complete agreement, and not-quite-ran out of the kitchen.

Between Danny needing to wash up and change his shirt and Jazz gathering her notes, because she would never waste a legitimate opportunity to learn something, they made it outside just before the oven timer went off on the lemon chicken.

* * *

Danny hung up, having secured his friends' company for the evening. Even if they hadn't technically arranged a meeting, Danny hadn't gotten to eat lunch and eating alone at the Nasty Burger was kind of depressing. Maybe it was because Valerie kept staring at him when she thought he wasn't looking. That was just weird.

Checking over his shoulder, he noticed that Jazz was following him, calmly climbing over a patch of sidewalk broken by tree roots. "Wait, why are you following me?"

"I'm not," she replied, amused. "It just so happens that we're headed the same direction until Third Street."

"Third Street?" Danny mused. Then he stopped and turned around, pointing at Jazz accusingly. "That's where that coffee place is, the one with the lame poetry and that waiter that keeps," he grimaced "-hitting on you!"

Jazz stared at him, feeling more than a bit discomforted. "Danny, how do you even know about that?" She was sure she hadn't told anyone.

He mumbled a reply.

"What was that?"

He sucked in a breath and spilled, "I follow you around town sometimes, okay?"

There was silence for a moment, broken by the roar of a passing car. "What?" she shrieked.

"I-it's not just you," he blurted. "I do the same thing with Sam and Tucker, and even Valerie sometimes. Not our parents, they've got too many inventions that hate me, but it's just – aagh. There is no way I can say this without sounding crazy, is there?"

Jazz turned this over in her head a few times, examining from all the angles she could find on such short notice. "Ah. So, this is part of your usual routine?"

He nodded, shame-faced. "Like I said, it's not just you. I have a lot of enemies, and ghost sense or no, I can't be everywhere at once. Never mind that some of my enemies are human and wouldn't show up anyway."

Jazz relaxed. "All right, but why the, ah…"

"Stalking?" Danny admitted. "Partly because I get worried, but mostly because if I don't see concrete proof that you're alright, it goes right past 'worried' and into 'terrified'. I've had my loved ones targeted before, and even one time was one too many."

Jazz winced and cast about for a change in subject. "So, ah, how long has this been going on?"

"You mean in general, or you specifically?"

"Both," she replied in a tone that left no room for argument.

He swallowed, hoping for a convenient distraction. When none appeared, he began, "Well, I started following you way back during the Johnny 13 incident. You know, _that_ one?"

She shuddered slightly, despite the balmy summer evening. "Yes, I know," she said in a clipped tone. "What I don't know is why you're holding that over my head."

"What?" Danny yelped. "No, I'm not – ugh. Just, give me a second, okay?"

He took a deep breath and let it out, deflating. "It's not like you're the only one in this family who's done stupid things when, uh, relationships are involved-"

Jazz lit up, ready to leap on the admission and start in on a lecture that would effectively be a prettied-up "You admitted you were wrong, ha-ha!"

"-and if you take that opening, I'll tell Mom how you nearly got possessed."

"Not fair," Jazz responded. And it wasn't. Danny could tell people about ghost-related weirdness that happened to her, and the worst she'd get would be a glowing net or a faceful of goop. She simply couldn't allow any ghostly occurrences to be linked to Danny, because there was always the off chance that someone else would see through his façade and realize that he really wasn't human. Jazz was optimistic, not an idiot. She'd heard all of the dinner-table conversations in which their parents enthusiastically discussed destroying (murdering) and dissecting (vivisecting) Phantom in increasingly creative ways while Danny turned paler and paler until he was ready to pick a fight with Vlad just to avoid developing a phobia of his own parents. And that didn't even get into the GIW, the _damned_ GIW with their complete disregard for human life, let alone ectoplasmic "life". She shuddered.

Suddenly Danny was in front of her, a chilled hand on her shoulder. "Jazz," he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" she smiled brightly. "Nothing's wrong, little brother, I'm fine. I was just thinking. You know how I get sometimes."

For once, Danny was justified in shooting Jazz the don't-BS-me look.

She just laughed weakly, pushed Danny's hand off of her shoulder and walked around him. "Well, come on," she chirped. "Let's get to the Nasty Burger! You can hang out with your friends, and I'll pick up a salad." With that, she whirled around and speeded up, walking just short of breaking into a run.

Danny just stared, wondering what the heck had brought that on. Okay, yeah, maybe he was a little paranoid sometimes, but there really were monsters out to get him and his loved ones. And frankly, he was more worried about the ones that didn't look the part. "Jazz," he started, trying to explain.

"What are you standing there for, silly? You don't want to keep Sam and Tucker waiting, right?" she said with a gleaming smile.

Danny just smacked his forehead and gave up. "Whatever, Jazz. Lead the way."

Humming, Jazz all but skipped off to the local fast-food establishment as Danny berated himself for somehow screwing up again. It wasn't his fault he couldn't speak girl-ese.

* * *

It was only hours later, as Jazz stretched the kinks out of her spine from crouching over a microfiche reader for almost two hours, that she realized that Danny had only answered one of her questions. What's more, he hadn't explained why he was still following her and the others, years after the Johnny 13 thing. That whole mess with Valerie and Technus and the carnival had happened nearly a whole month ago, and – oh. Oh.

Did it still count as paranoid anxiety when they really were out to get you?


End file.
